


Eärendilyon

by Herbsandmoons



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi, characters will be added, tags will change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-11-21 17:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18145367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbsandmoons/pseuds/Herbsandmoons
Summary: One day an Elf-maid arrives in Lannisport. (A lot of original storyline, but when it is canon, I'll try to stick to canon)





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

 

**Lannisport, 278 AC**

 

"Jaime! Jaime! What is happening there?"

Twelve-year-old Jaime Lannister looked down at his little brother, who was twitching at his tunic and staring at him expectantly, then again toward the harbor, where some confusion had arisen.

"I don't know," Jaime shrugged disparagingly. "Some clash, that's all."

He had never been particularly interested in silly quarrels of fisherfolk, or mariners, and ever since he had become a squire at Crakehall, he hadn't been interested in such things at all. However, when he saw that Tyrion was still boring his mismatched eyes into him almost pleadingly, he said with a sigh, "Good then, we will see."

Straightening up proudly, Jaime took his brother's hand and, as fast as Tyrion was able to keep up, they walked down the street, toward the harbor.

Jaime had not expected at all what they would sight around the corner, once they would pass the high port buildings and come onto the wharf.

"Jaime, can you see?" Tyrion's eyes became round like two two-coloured moons, and he almost jumped in amazement. Other time Jaime would have laughed, just like he often did, amused by his brother's overly sincere excitement, now, however, he felt as his own eyes widen.

Above the heads of many mariners, swearing and stinking of fish, whose cries, full of some unusual animation, he and Tyrion had heard before, Jaime saw a ship.

In his, still short, life, he had seen many ships. Some of them could have been beautiful in the others' eyes - his uncle Gerion had admired them, and so had Tyrion, yet was there really anything large and great that his five-year-old brother didn't admire? Jaime, if he was sensitive to any beauty, it was the beauty of Cersei and the beauty of swords. Every other beauty he considered useless, also the beauty of ships.

Now, however, Jaime saw the fairest of ships, and he could only think it was beautiful. It seemed whiter than the gulls, circling with yammering above the wharf, and beamed so stupendously like possibly not even Brightroar of Valyrian steel could have shined. Jaime had never seen Brightroar, not even a drawing of it, yet ever since uncle Gerion had once told him its story, that lost sword of his house in Jaime's imagination became greater than any jewel.

Docked in the haven, the ship floated on the dirty waves of the harbor so subtly and lightly, as if not touching them at all - it reminded Jaime of an awesome swan, ready to take to the air, out of some silly children tales which had always amused and bored him. However, now those ridiculous tales, for whatever reason, seemed incredibly real to Jaime, and for a moment he stood as if bewitched, not able to take the eyes off of the shining ship.

He awoke when he heard that someone from the crowd calls to him.

"Young lord Jaime!"

Jaime turned his gaze to a place from whence the voice came, and in a man figure walking toward him he recognized Jorin, one of his father's port officials, who uncle Gerion hated and called an old, filthy swine.

Jorin bowed to him, then he took a short, unsympathetic look at Tyrion. Frightened Tyrion immediately hid behind his brother, and Jaime felt as he clung to his leg with all his strength. That was enough for Jaime to regain the balance and the pride of a Lannister.

"What is it?" he asked, raising his brow. "What is going on here?"

Suddenly, Jorin seemed confused, and he nervously moved his hand over his fat belly. "Master Jaime, mayhap your father, or uncle is in the town?"

"My father is in King's Landing, and he'll return to Casterly Rock no sooner than a fortnight. For uncle Gerion, for whom, I suppose, you ask, he is in Lannisport, now busy with important matters, though."

"You've come here alone, then? You shouldn't have come to the harbor with no guard, young lord ..."

Jorin smiled - he presumably had good intentions, however, his crooked, indulgent smile made Jaime's blood boil. Seven hells, he wasn't a child anymore! Jaime straightened up, possibly a little too abruptly, while trying to delicately loose his legging, which Tyrion was still clutching to.

"I can defend myself," he almost barked.

Jorin didn't care much about Jaime's anger, but when he peeked at the awesome ship, the smile disappeared from his face. Again he moved his hand over his belly, clearly restless.

"What's that ship?" asked Jaime. "Whose pennon is that - I have never seen it before?"

Jorin winced. Suddenly, he seemed almost terrified.

"Lord Jaime... That's why I asked for your uncle... It's a really odd thing..."

"What's that ship?" Jaime repeated his question, struggling to make his voice sound powerful, even though, for whatever reason, his heart began to beat irritatingly fast. "Where does it come from?"

Jorin hesitated before he answered:

"Well... We don't know that, my lord..."

"What does it me -  _you don't know_?"

"Last night, as you surely know, there was a huge storm on the sea... It's almost impossible... It's  _utterly_  impossible any ship could've outlasted such a storm and arrived in Lannisport intact. And..." Jorin stuttered, swallowing loudly, and looked at Jaime. "And Gerwyn, who did duties in the morning and was responsible for letting ships in, claims that the ship.. That it... Came out of the sea..."

Jaime watched Jorin's face until he thought, with astonishment, that Jorin believes in what he is saying. He once again adjusted the legging, at the same time glancing down at Tyrion, who started shifting anxiously, clearly not able to decide what was stronger in him - curiosity or fear.

"What a raving!" Jaime laughed at last. "I'm telling uncle you recruit some drunken, mad fools to work in the harbor!"

"I've thought the same, master Jaime - that Gerwyn talks gibberish, until... Until I have seen  _her_..."

"Her?" asked Jaime, raising his brow and smiling mockingly, still trying to treat all of it as some, not the best, joke.

"A woman who came by that ship," said Jorin. "A witch."


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

"Came by that ship?" Jaime repeated after Jorin. "Alone?"

Meanwhile, he once again took a look at the vessel - it was smaller than the Lannisport trading cogs adjoining it, yet still seemed far too big to be steered by one person. Therefore, when Jorin nodded, Jaime's patience dried up.

"Enough of that!" He clenched his hand around the hilt of his sword. "Come Tyrion!"

He gripped his brother's hand, then he pulled him toward the vessel. Frightened Jorin forthwith followed them and grabbed Jaime's shoulder.

"Lord Jaime, wait! We'd better search for lord Gerion... You haven't seen that woman, young master, she's goin' to bewitch you like Gerwyn!"

Anger glittered in Jaime's eyes.

"I am a son of Tywin Lannister, soon to be a knight! Do not tell me what to do!" he snapped, then again rushed in the direction of the ship. This time Jorin didn't stop him, however, he heard Tyrion's voice behind:

"Jaime, wait for me!"

Jaime turned around, berating himself inwardly that he had forgotten about him.

"I'm sorry, Tyrion," he said with a sigh.

However, Tyrion wasn't angry at him at all. When he waddled to his brother, his eyes were rather burning of excitement.

"Do you really want to come onto that ship, Jaime?"

"I..." Jaime hesitated for a moment, but he soon got hold of himself. In Tyrion's gaze, as usually full of admiration for the older brother, Jaime saw his own dreamed vision of himself - a knight who fears nothing, certainly not vessels, no matter how shining they would be.

"Yes, I do - an unknown ship has come to our port, and,  _for unknown reasons_ , father's officials are not able to learn what's the purpose of its arrival, you've heard. Uncle Gerion is busy, we must see ourselves."

"And what if a witch is truly there?" asked reasonably Tyrion.

What if a witch is truly there? Jaime laughed, trying to drown out the hastened beating of his heart, and only said:

"Don't be afraid, you know I'll defend you if needed."

"I'm not afraid at all!" said Tyrion, and this time Jaime smiled to himself of sincere amusement.

Of course - Tyrion might have feared their father, Cersei and the loath looks of almost whole Westeros, but at the thought of meeting a dragon he would jump in happiness. Did a witch on a shining ship, defeating stormy waves on her own, differ much from a dragon?

Jaime looked up the broadside of the ship, yet he noticed no one on the deck, and the gangplank was dropped onto the wharf. Therefore, he picked Tyrion up and climbed onto the ship.

"Good morrow!" he said, putting his brother on the deck and looking around. "Is anyone there?"

He saw no one, and except the quiet rush of the harbor waves and the murmur of the chatter coming from the wharf, did not hear anything, so he almost jumped in astonishment when a soft, feminine voice spoke right behind his back:

_"Aur vaer!"_

Jaime immediately turned, and his eyes widened another time this day. He almost didn't feel as Tyrion again fled behind his leg - that was the end of Tyrion's courage, yet Jaime couldn't blame him, because he himself would have gladly run as far as possible from the deck of that vessel now.

In front of him stood a young woman, clad in fair, manly robes, and over her shoulders a cloak was thrown - possibly to protect her from the sea winds. Her face and the dark brown, almost black, hair glistened in the shine of the morrow's sun a thousandfold stronger than the ship they were standing on.

She was the most beautiful woman Jaime had ever seen.

She was more beautiful than Cersei.

 _"Goheno nin... Ú-gosto nin!"_  she continued, however, she soon realized Jaime doesn't understand her, because she smiled slightly, and said in the Common Tongue, with a foreign accent, though:

"Forgive me, I did not wish to frighten you!"

She still carefully watched Jaime's face, possibly trying to find out if he had understood her this time. Jaime nodded nervously, sensing his cheeks get hot under her unbearably piercing gaze. He moved his eyes from her face to embroidery adorning the cloak she wore, however, he soon became annoyed with the strange feeling of embarrassment that woman was causing him.

For a moment, it seemed to Jaime that she tries to read something out of his thoughts, it was impossible, though.

"You haven't frightened me, my lady," he lied, straightening up and looking up again. "I'm Jaime Lannister, a son of Tywin Lannister, the ruler of this haven. I am here to ask you, my lady, what has brought you to Lannisport? Who are you and where are come from?"

"Lannisport?" the woman looked questioningly at Jaime, but not waiting for an answer, she continued to speak:

"I am glad to meet you, young Jaime. I am Mŷlantil of Mithlond."

She must have seen incomprehension on Jaime's face, as she smiled with some amusement and added:

"Of the Grey Havens."

However, when she realized that Jaime still doesn't know what place she means, she clearly got surprised.

"Have you never heard of the Grey Havens?" she asked.

Although Jaime's heart was hammering all the time, and he still was almost numb of fear accompanying the meeting with that woman, her careless joyfulness combined with a strange superiority needled him.

"I haven't heard, my lady," he snapped. "There's no such port in Westeros, and I am trained to be a knight, not a mariner - I don't know every haven in Essos."

"There's no such port in Essos too," suddenly said Tyrion in his all-knowing tone which often amused Jaime. Now, however, Jaime wasn't in a mood to laugh at all - when he saw that Mŷlantil looks down at his brother, his hand wandered to the sword hilt.

"That is..." Tyrion stuttered when he realized he had brought attention to himself, and immediately looked down at his boots.

"Uncle Gerion never mentioned it," he finished almost unhearably.

Mŷlantil smiled, and crouching down before Tyrion, she raised his chin, forcing him to look at her.

"Forgive me I did not greet you sooner,  _eilianon didthen_. What is your name?"

Tyrion's eyes searched for help in Jaime, possibly trying to understand how Mŷlantil had called him and judge her intentions toward him. Jaime shrugged - he too had no idea.

"T- Tyrion," Tyrion mumbled at last.

"My brother," added Jaime just in case, still gripping his sword tightly.

For a while, Mŷlantil watched Tyrion with her piercing gaze, long enough to cause Jaime shift from the toes to the heels.

"It is a great joy to meet you, little Tyrion," she said at last, and to Jaime's astonishment, Tyrion gave her one of the widest smiles Jaime had ever seen on his face.

"You are not Gondorians, are you?" Mŷlantil asked, moving her gaze from Tyrion to Jaime. Jaime raised his brow.

"Possibly not, whoever Gondorians are," he said almost jokingly - finally, he felt a little more confident in that woman's presence, even if his heart still didn't want to calm down.

Mŷlantil rose to her feet, and, with the steps so light as if, likewise seagulls, she soared in the air raised by gusts of wind, she walked to the stern, turning her eyes toward the Sunset Sea.

"Since the beginning I have known it cannot be Gondor," she spoke - more to herself, once again starting to use her own language Jaime wasn't able to understand.  _"Reviannen an Linhir, then the storm came..."_

Jaime wondered how truly beautiful she was when she turned her head back to him. Her vivid eyes, not fully blue, not fully green, glittered like precious stones. Once again it seemed to him that by some magical way he and Tyrion had been brought into some children tale, wonderful and unreasonable.

"You are not the Haradrim too, and I do not feel that the shadow of the Evil has already fallen upon you. Who are you, then?" she asked with some joyful amazement in her voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 2**

 

 

"What is it? Speak quickly!" Gerion Lannister snapped at the warden of the wharf, Jorin - Tywin's  _trusted_  official, what meant Gerion himself would have never given him the position he had if anyone had listened to his opinion on that matter.

Gerion rolled his eyes. He detested watching over the loading of goods onto the vessels and letting the trading ships out of the port, particularly when, because of some bloody storm, the transport was late, and the mariners nervous - therefore, he had already been annoyed enough that morrow, he didn't need to meet that fat fool Jorin, so he could make his mood even worse.

However, for some reason, Jorin had strived to see him.

"Lord Lannister," mumbled Jorin, "at dawn the ship arrived at the seashore..."

Gerion put the Lannister seal on the parchment confirming the amount of clothes they were sending to King's Landing, then he looked at Jorin, raising his brows.

"After the storm? Fortune to be envied," he said, taking another piece of parchment from the scribe. "What am I to do with that? Have they brought wretched goods? Haven't paid the toll?"

Jorin swallowed loudly and moved his hand over his belly. Gerion stopped studying the parchment and watched the wharf warden, frowning. He was always greatly nervous in his presence, Gerion knew that, however, now he dreaded as if he was to partake in a trial by combat soon.

"They paid-" stuttered Jorin. "Did pay, forsooth - in gold even... That means...  _she_  paid, yet-"

"She?"

"Yes... My lord, please, let me finish!" Jorin said when he saw Gerion opens his mouth again.

Gerion sighed. "Do finish!"

So then Jorin told him about some glittering ship, which floated out of the depths of the sea, steered by the goddess with eyes that looked like turquoise stones, and Gerion was already scoffing at him when he was saying:

"We... We still don't know where the ship comes from... Have you ever seen a pennon with the swan in the midst of two white trees, m'lord?"

"I haven't," Gerion had to admit, though he still was more exasperated than interested in that whole matter. "It can possibly come from one of those little Essos havens no one will ever cope to count... Still, I have no thought what that ship is doing here - yet, is it not you who's paid by my dear brother to look after all ships' comings in and out? As far as I'm familiar with the port rules, the unknown ships are not let into the port, but tied up by the shore until they are... Well... Known?" he mocked.

"But that woman..."

Gerion fought the temptation to roll his eyes again.

"I don't care for some fantasies, no matter - Gerwyn's or yours! I guess you both got drunk as hells in the inn last night, not the first time, after all, and still haven't sobered up... Just get to know what's that ship, when you've already let it in - only then come to me! And now, get out of my face!"

"But..."

"Anything else?"

Had Jorin been frightened before, now he almost quivered in fear. "But... But your nephew... I mean young lord Jaime... He has already come onto that ship... I mean... He wanted to, and I suppose he did..."

"What?" Gerion immediately let go of the piece of parchment he was holding, and rushed out of the scriptorium. Jorin ran after him, and Gerion yelled at him to explain how -  _and who had let it_ -happened, what the wharf warden dutifully did, telling him about his meeting with Jaime and Tyrion moments before.

"Lord Gerion... I... I've had no choice... I... I  _cannot_  order master Jaime! I..." Jorin stuttered, what made Gerion finally snap angrily at him:

"Oh, enough! Quiet down! I assure you," he said much quieter, leaning to Jorin. "If  _anything_  happens to  _either_  of my nephews because of that, no matter how my brother'll punish you, _I_ shall be the first to make sure never again you'll find any joy while sarding those whores of yours! ... You've understood, I hope."

Damned, foolish Jorin!

Foolish, foolish Jaime! Have he truly not learned any maritime laws from him? Getting on the ship without the permission of the ship commander may easily be treated as an intrusion, even a kind of port thievery, no matter how lordling-like Jaime may have looked, and who knows what the crew of that ridiculously mysterious vessel would do about it.

Fortunately, Jorin had no courage to follow him further. Gerion took two guards, then they left the building, and quickly walked down to the wharf, where lasted the confusion among the port folk.

Gerion worked his way through the crowd, and his eyes began to search for the ship, about which Jorin had spoken. It wasn't hard to find - forsooth, it was amazing, and, astonishingly, Jorin had been right saying it didn't resemble any vessel that had arrived in the Lannisport harbor ever before.

However, Gerion could hardly think about it now - he sighed with relief when his gaze found Jaime on the deck of the ship, and it didn't seem anything worrying was happening there.

"What's going on here?" Gerion barked at the crowd. "Have you got nothing to do? Get out of here, now! There must be room for loading on the wharf!"

"But  _that_  ship-"

"Is no concern of yours! Have you never seen a ship before?" he mockingly asked. The white ship seemed genuinely strange, even for Gerion himself, yet bringing the attention of the whole Lannisport folk to it would surely do nothing good, he knew that very well. "Go back to work!"

He ordered his guards to keep the peace on the wharf and wait for him, then he walked closer toward the vessel, where no one from the crowd had dared to go. Only now, when he was alone and calmed down a little, Gerion slowed the pace to look at the amazing ship more carefully.

"Seven bloody hells!" he whispered to himself when he stood the nearest to the broadside he was able to, and held out his hand, trying to reach the ship's timbers. It had to be birchwood, yet the finest he had ever seen, and planed in the way that made it shine like white gold.

He took away his hand, and moved it to his belt to check if his knife was in its sheath as he suddenly remembered why he had come there, then he quickly climbed up the gangplank.

"Uncle Gerion!" Tyrion immediately greeted him. He possibly wanted to say something more, but Gerion hushed him with his hand. His gaze, however, lingered at his little nephew for a short while - Tyrion's mismatched eyes were glittering, his cheeks were all flushed, and he seemed far too cheerful in the presence of the stranger to not make Gerion mistrustful.

He frowned, then looked at the young woman standing in front of him, and bowing slightly, he said with a small smile:

"Good day to you, m'lady! I'm Gerion Lannister, the Master of the Port, and I'm glad to hail you in Lannisport, what, as I can see, my nephews have already done as well," Gerion sent Jaime what he hoped was a scolding look, and smiled even wider to the woman. "I have to ask you, though, for the reason of your arrival, which - wouldn't you agree, my lady - is a little unexpected."

While the woman explained to him who she is and where she comes from, Gerion studied her closely. She was astonishingly beautiful, even in comparison to some Essos maids Gerion had once found endearing - in some wondrous way, she seemed compounded with the wildlife, what made her somehow look like the shining phantom, melting in the air, the wind, or the haven waves.

Now, Gerion wasn't surprised anymore that the simple port folk saw a goddess in her - if Gerion believed in any gods, he could have easily imagined one of them to be similar to her.

"You claim you've sailed alone, then? Tell me, my lady, how is it possible a young woman like you - almost a girl - coped not only with the storm last night, but also with such a long journey?" he smirked.

Mŷlantil laughed, unexpectedly amused by Gerion's question, then she said:

"Have you not recognize that I am not a mortal woman, but an Elf? I may be young in the timeline of my kin, yet I am still almost three hundred years older than you, lord Gerion."

She must have noticed their utter dumbness, because the smile disappeared from her face, and her eyes widened in astonishment.

"Have you never heard of the Elves as well?"

Gerion grunted nervously.

"Well... No, we haven't," he said, but he soon decided, trying to preserve the remains of the common sense, to leave that matter for now. "So... If I've understood you aright, lady Mŷlantil, you've come here by chance - what do you intend to do now?"

"I do not know, my lord," she admitted. She pondered for a while, then added:

"I still may hardly believe there is a land in Arda, far from mine, of which I have not heard even in the oldest tales... mayhap, although it seems impossible, if I could compare my maps with yours, they would give me some answer?"


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 A slight wince crossed Gerion's face. He wouldn't wager one single coin on what that woman was saying, but she seemed sincerely kind, in a way he had rarely experienced in his earlier life - this was reason enough to keep her as far as possible from the den of the lions in Casterly Rock, at the best to forthwith ship her vessel off, back to the Green, Grey, or whatever called havens from which she claimed she come.

However, Gerion didn't manage to say anything to prevent a possible forthcoming mishap as Tyrion spoke first:

"Uncle Gerion has plenty of old maps in Casterly Rock, for sure he'll gladly show you all of them, wouldn't you, uncle?"

Tyrion's gaze was pleading when he raised his eyes at his uncle, and Gerion couldn't blame him for the unreasonable invitation he had just offered Mŷlantil, not only because Tyrion was only a child, but also because it was unavoidable he would wholeheartedly give himself to almost anyone who would treat him with open kindness, above all to a woman who at the same time could sate his yearning for wondrous stories of unknown lands and creatures.

Gerion swore inwardly. Tyrion was another reason they should never befriend her - he would get attached to her far too quickly.

Therefore, Gerion fought the urge to stab Jaime with his knife when he heard that he says, clearly not making any effort to think twice of it:

"I've never had a great liking for sticking amid the old scrolls, _any_  scrolls - truth to be told, but I believe we could do some searching in the Rock's library, as uncle Gerion has once said there is a map in the library dating back to the times of the first Andal kings, haven't you, uncle?"

Wouldn't you, uncle? Haven't you, uncle? When he had been dismissed from the position of the jolly rebound of their rigid father, and become Gerion, the Master of Legendary Parchments, the First of His Name?

Gerion smiled crookedly to himself at how poor the jape truly was, yet he was hardly in a mood to think of a better one. He soon felt Mŷlantil's piercing gaze upon himself.

"I would gladly take a look at those maps," she said, "if only I am not too much of a burden to you, lord Gerion."

"You won't be, my lady," Gerion lied, forcing himself to smile. "Have I understood aright, the sons of my brother, the lord of Casterly Rock have already requested you to come with us to the castle, why should I stand against their will? I'll do my best to help you in your search, and share my knowledge with you, have I  _truly_  had  _any_ , yet..." he hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment, struggling to find good words for what he wanted to say.

"If I could ask you for something, or give you some counsel, though, my lady... Bearing in mind the, well...  _awkwardness_  of the state of affairs we've all found ourselves in... Could you possibly avoid telling anyone your true origins and... age, at least until we understand, if only a little better, what... what has exactly happened?"

Mŷlantil gave a pensive nod. "I could. What shall I be saying?"

"Leave it to me - I shall present you,"  _somehow_ , Gerion mocked himself inwardly, "at the court. And in the city... Everyone will possibly be to frightened to ask," he smirked, yet he added after a moment:

"Still, it will be better if I lead you to and hide you in the inn until I'm done with the loading matters - luckily, at this time of a day almost no one is there, and given a few coins, the host will keep his mouth shut, not caring who you truly are, and let you wait in the kitchens..."

Suddenly, Gerion thought of how little courtesy his offer was - she was a lady after all, or at least she  _seemed_  to be, considering the way she spoke and moved, and the incredible pride that so vividly beamed out of her.

He sent Mŷlantil an apologetic, a little embarrassed look.

"I do hope you don't mind, my lady... Jaime and Tyrion are going to keep you company... Just, as I said, bearing in mind-"

"The awkwardness, I have understood," Mŷlantil seemed amused again, and Gerion couldn't help the feeling that in some way, all the while she keeps treating him like a little child, not much older than Tyrion. It was greatly annoying, however, it didn't seem he could do anything about it now.

"I do not mind," she also said.

"Wonderful," he tried to make it sound as little drily as possible. "Then, my least question would be - can you ride horseback, lady Mŷlantil?"

They settled that she can, and some time later, when all four of them left Lannisport behind their backs, and were going the highroad, leading to Lannisters' fortress in Casterly Rock, Gerion could see she was able to it very well.

Much to his earlier astonishment, Mŷlantil hadn't wanted her horse to be saddled, so that she rode like that now - as it seemed, without any effort, some yards ahead of them, and her careful gaze was moving thwart the partially stony, partially covered with stretches of wild grasses hills that rose afar. Gerion looked at those hills too - although Mŷlantil's eyes seemed to be soaking in every smallest piece of that sight, he himself had no idea what she may have seen there, apart from the flickers of the noon sun's rays, that were bouncing off the rocks in the same way as off her long, dark hair.

She had taken off the hood - Gerion noticed. He had asked her to put it on her head before, when he had thought that far too many of the Lannisport men had already been drooling over her, and that it surely would not bring any good (as if her presence itself wouldn't have been enough difficulty). Now, however, it forsooth didn't matter anymore, for that there was little chance they would meet anyone on that part of the highroad, so close to the Rock, with the exception of its residents, who would, alas, see Mŷlantil anyway.

Taking the opportunity the woman couldn't hear him, Gerion glanced at Jaime and hissed at him drily:

"I hope you're pleased, my lordling!"

Jaime raised his brow. "What do you mean, uncle?"

Gerion rolled his eyes. "What do you think you've done, Jaime? Taking  _her_  to Casterly Rock is the most stupid thing you could've thought of! Do you know what will be once your father sees we've brought -  _to his castle_  - a girl who claims that is a few hundred years old and comes from a land of which no one of us has ever heard?"

"Father is not in Casterly Rock," Jaime said carelessly, and Gerion's blood boiled.

"He will soon return! I  _assure_  you he's going to be  _utterly delighted_ , finding out I allowed some wode woman, who speaks like some damned inspired soothsayer as your company!" he scoffed.

"She is not a woman," Tyrion broke in suddenly. He sat in the saddle together with Jaime, who held him firmly between his arms and legs, and listened to them with attention. "She is an Elf."

"Be quiet, Tyrion, I'm talking to your brother!"

"Uncle... Gerwyn says her ship  _came out of the sea_ ," said Jaime, a little unconfidently, and as if trying to confirm Tyrion's words.

Gerion's eyes almost widened in astonishment.

"Bloody hells, Jaime, what's going on with you? Since when you behave like Tyrion?" he sent his little newhew an apologetic glance, noticing the half hurt, half offended expression on Tyrion's face. "Gerwyn falls for a siren once a moon, do you really think it's wise to believe him? I don't..." Gerion tried to calm down and softened his voice a little. "I don't deny that she has  _incredible_  lot of luck, and  _impressive_  sailing skills, but it still doesn't mean she's three hundred years old, and lives in a land where ships jump out of the sea like dolphins... We should've sent her out of our port when we could!"

"So why have you not done it, uncle?" asked cockily Jaime.

"Because I'm that foolish uncle who never says  _no_  to you, even if it's highly required?" Gerion barked, not knowing if he was angrier at his nephews, or at himself. Though, I still think we shouldn't let her into Casterly Rock..."

"No!" Tyrion whined - his voice sounded as if he was about to cry soon. "Please, uncle Gerion, I so much want her to come with us, I've never wanted anything that much!"

Gerion shook his head, resigned. It was already an utterly lost cause, he knew that. Yet, at least he could tease Tyrion about it a little longer, what he couldn't refrain to do.

"Even a dragon? I shall bring you one when you agree to send that lady away," he said jokingly.

"You wouldn't bring me a dragon at all, you're just saying so..." Tyrion thought about it reasonably. "And even if you do, I don't want a dragon anymore, I want her!"

"Are you sure? Think twice! I would certainly prefer a dragon," Gerion smirked. Maybe it would burn Tywin's ass, so that Gerion could easily throw both Jorin and Gerwyn far away from Lannisport for ever letting that bloody vessel into the haven.

"Uncle, please... Jaime?" Tyrion sobbed, and he tried to whirl in the saddle to look at his brother, searching for his help. Gerion scolded himself inwardly.

"It's aright, Tyrion, I'm only joking," he said softly, heading his horse closer to his nephews, so that he was able to stroke Tyrion's hair. "I've invited lady Mŷlantil myself. I'm not going to turn her back now... Anyway, we'd better chase after her, so that she won't get lost... Or be blown out by somewind _wave -_ if she's so prone to appear  _out of_   _nowhere_ , it seems she may just as quickly disappear _into nowhere_ , _"_ he mocked, throwing Jaime a look, then kicked his horse to trot.

Mŷlantil didn't even look at them when they reached her - with her eyes fixed somewhere far ahead, she was singing something in her own tongue. Of course, Gerion couldn't understand a word, yet the woman's clear pensiveness strangely mismatched the song that seemed jolly, even jocular.

"Would you care to share what was that song about, my lady?" Jaime asked when she finished, but instead of answering, she all of a sudden questioned Tyrion:

"Why would you ever want a dragon?"

Tyrion's eyes became round. "How... How do you know..." he turned his head and quickly took a look above Jaime's shoulder, possibly trying to judge how far away from her they had been before. Gerion looked there as well, and, as he had supposed, it was much too far, so that she could have heard them. He frowned.

"You've  _heard_  us?" Tyrion stared at her in amazement.

Mŷlantil chuckled quietly, then repeated her question:

"Why would you want a dragon? Dragons have never brought any good to Arda."

"Have you ever met one?" Tyrion's eyes now glittered in excitement.

"No," Mŷlantil smiled at him. "Not many of them have survived to our times, and the ones that have no more possess the strength their kind once had, for that the old fire already weakened in them. Yet the tales say the first dragons were created thousands years ago by Morgoth himself, who gave them the worst of traits, and they have caused many deaths of both Elves and Men as the time passed by, led to the falls of the greatest kingdoms."

Mŷlantil fell silent for a moment, then she sang the same song as before, but in the Common Tongue now:

 

"One elf-child fled

the dragon's head,

holding the glass in the hand

that the echo had made his brand

 

The child looked once,

he saw the sun,

but the echo kept quiet

and the dragon flied by it

 

The child looked twice,

he saw the star,

but the echo kept quiet

and the dragon flied by it

 

So he tried it the time that was last,

and he saw himself in the glass

 

Then the echo yelled

to the dragon's despair."

 

Gerion smirked.

"Charming rhymes," he mocked. "I must admit, though, in your speech they sounded a little better."

Mŷlantil laughed, and Gerion wondered - not for the first time - how easily she seemed to change her moods - from deep thoughtfulness to almost careless cheerfulness.

"It is only a children song," she said. "Yet, my friend Glorfindel remembers that princess Idril Celebrindal used to sing this song to her little son Eärendil - and thereby she might have unknowingly foreseen Eärendil's flight during the fall of Gondolin, and his later fate among the stars... Some say the glass of the song is either the Elessar his mother gave him, or even the Silmaril itself," she was lost in her thoughts again for a while, but then she smiled and added:

"I do not think I believe in prophetic songs the way Glorfindel does, though. Songs are just songs, they may tell our past days, but hardly the forthcoming ones."

Mŷlantil fell silent again, and for a moment none of them spoke, only a few gulls which suddenly appeared far above their heads shrieked loudly.

"Tell us more about Eärendil," Tyrion finally pleaded. "And about Gondolin, and Sil..." he struggled to recall the name.

"Tyrion..." Gerion rolled his eyes, and Mŷlantil said:

"I shall tell you later,  _eilianon didthen_."

"And what... What are you calling me?" Tyrion mumbled unconfidently.

"Tyrion, enough for now!" said Gerion, because they had just gone around the cliff, that had covered the sight on their left side, and only now they could see the bouldered hill of Casterly Rock. Gerion watched as Mŷlantil eyes slowly wandered over the rocky road that rose up amid the stones toward the gates, on which hundred of years before the two lions had been engraved. Afterward she looked higher, at the huge cliff, glowing golden in the sunlight, at the of which the castle stood.

Of course, Mŷlantil must have already seen the cliff, either from the ship, while she had been sailing into Lannisport, or from the port, however, Gerion had always thought the most amazing it looked from the place they now stood - he remembered, when had still been a boy, he had used to come here sometimes to gaze at the castle, and only at those times he had felt genuine pride of being a Lannister.

"Well... Welcome to Casterly Rock, lady Mŷlantil," he said. For whatever reason, he expected Mŷlantil to be as enchanted by the sight as he himself had once been, but her eyes just glittered in amusement:

"I am Mŷlantil, I have told you before."

She had told Gerion, forsooth. Once he had left the inn, she had run after him and grabbed his shoulder. Unlike her overall restraint, her moves happened to be quick and bold, and they may have betrayed the temper that hid behind.

"Gerion, wait!"

Gerion had smirked. When had he lost his "lord" title, he had wanted to jokingly ask, yet when he had turned to look at Mŷlantil, he suddenly couldn't utter a word - at that moment her eyes had been shining like true jewels, and in her strange, incredible beauty she had seemed almost terrifying. Who the hells she was, Gerion wondered.

"Remember it may all be a dream - either yours, or mine, which would be washed in the break of day, like sometimes the dark clouds float off of the sky above the seas, led by Ulmo's gentle thoughts."

Gerion had no idea what he may say at that, so he had just worn his smirk again and said:

"It may all be, my lady."

It had better be.

"My name is Mŷlantil. Sometimes I am called Mŷla too."

Gerion had nodded, then turned to walk away. His eyes had unknowingly wandered to the sky that had been all clean now. He swore inwardly.

It had better all be the dream.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 3**

 

 

That eventide Tyrion couldn't fall asleep. Truth to be told, it wasn't uncommon as sleep usually came to the little Lannister boy with great difficulty - Tyrion didn't know why, but he had always felt cold in his too big four-poster bed, no matter how tightly he covered himself with the blankets and curled up into a ball, hugging the pillows. Sometimes he thought it was just that his body - that, maesters and men said, was all wrong in so many features, still foolishly remembered the coolness of winter during which, as Jaime had once told him, he had been born - mayhaps one day it would at last forget, Tyrion hoped.

However, at other times he highly doubted this was a true reason, for that he felt not only coldness, but also forlornness, which was even worse. Tyrion often wished to ask the nursemaid, who was coming by dusks to his bed chamber to help him unclothe and keep him clean, if she could sit at the edge of his bed and stay with him, if only a little, longer. Yet, although the maid was always almost overly courteous, she never smiled, and moved in such haste, that before Tyrion could have mustered up enough courage to say anything, the end of the servant's gown was already dissappearing behind the door, which were closing with the quiet roar. Then Tyrion was being alone again, listening in the dead silence of the chamber to the rush of sea waves bouncing off of the cliff.

That eventide was different, though, because at once Tyrion's heart beat too feverishly, so that he could have been cold, and his mind was too occupied to remember he was alone. And, strangely, he truly didn't feel lonely, for that somewhere amid the many halls, chambers and rooms of Casterly Rock Mŷlantil now was, all beautiful, wondrous and so, so kind - they had found her, only they knew who she truly was, and she was theirs.

Uncle Gerion's, Jaime's and _his._

Tyrion could hardly believe his happiness, so that, if only he wasn't so afraid she would at last get angry at him for disturbing her too much, he would have forthwith jumped out of his bed and walked round the castle as fast as he was able to, to find her - above all because, earlier that day, he hadn't spent as much time with the Elf-maid as he had wished to.

Uncle Gerion had presented Mŷlantil as a seller of skins for writing, a daughter of the still unknown, yet deft parchment craftsman, who could offer some of his handiwork for the Rock's scriptoria. Uncle Gerion had possibly coined that lie, because before they had left the inn, Mŷlantil had briefly shewed them the map of her land - the Westerlands, which were the part of Middle-earth, and then she had seen that along with the map she had accidentally taken a few blank pachment scrolls. Uncle Gerion had watched the scrolls carefully and admired them, saying the art of making such parchment must have not resembled any of those known in Westeros, and, in all likelihood, even in Essos.

However, uncle Gerion's words of Mŷlantil possibly hadn't been convincing enough, particularly for aunt Genna, who had only raised her brows, and a few moments later, when she had thought Mŷlantil couldn't hear her, she had hissed at uncle Gerion:

"What kind of device is it this time? You've brought at the court some leman, or whore of yours? ... She doesn't look like a whore at all, though, she is... Well, very beautiful and full of charm, but subtle one... And so _outlandish_..." aunt Genna had been also saying when her eyes had moved carefully over the Elf-lady, who had then stood almost at the second end of the castle corridor and studied the wall paintings.

"She is not a whore!" uncle Gerion had snapped angrily. "I've never had a taste for whoring, you know that. And she is not my lover as well!"

Aunt Genna had snorted mockingly.

"Don't make me laugh, Gerion! You can't possibly think I am going to believe she's a pedler."

Uncle Gerion had seemed confused for a moment, yet he soon had said boldly:

"Even if she'd have been my lover, you have nothing to do with that! I am a lord of Casterly Rock too, I may bring whoever I want to my chambers."

"I'm eager to see what Tywin will do once he hears about it!"

"What will he do?" uncle Gerion had asked scoffingly. "Pinch my ear as you used to do with Jaime's? Scold his _sweet little brother_? I'm not a whipping boy to beat, no matter - Tywin's or yours, I've never been. I know my rights at this court."

That had been the end of their conversation, and Tyrion had sighed in relief. No matter what aunt Genna had thought of Mŷlantil, it hadn't seem she was going to throw her away from Casterly Rock anytime soon.

Later that day, Tyrion had been allowed to eat a dinner along with Mŷlantil and uncle Gerion in the uncle's solar, yet shortly afterwards, to his disappointment, uncle had dismissed him together with the servant as he had said he wished to speak alone with the lady. Tyrion had noticed, however, that coming out of the solar, the servant hadn't closed the door tightly, so that as soon as he had been left in his own chamber, he had forthwith slipped out of it and waddled through the corridors back to the solar's door.

It still hadn't been fully closed, he had rejoiced, and as quietly as he could, he had opened them a little wider, so that he might have seen or heard anything.

"Do Elves drink wine?" uncle Gerion had been asking jokingly, and Mŷlantil had smiled.

"They do," she had said, so he had filled two cups and given her one of them. The smile had then disappeared from his face, and he had looked at the Elf-lady slightly embarrassed.

"I suppose you've heard what I spoke of with my sister?"

Mŷlantil had nodded pensively, and uncle Gerion had continued:

"You shouldn't have, and I should've defended your good name far better, for what I beg your forgiveness... I've just thought... Although it _clearly_ goes _much too_ _far_ beyond the court code, and I hope I haven't wholly offended you by that..." his hand had nervously run through his fair hair, "And as foolish as it sounds, it is kind of a good thing you've become my leman in the others' eyes - you see... They are all quite used to my... _antics_ here, so therefore we may avoid many uncomfortable questions and be left in peace for some time... Still, please, forgive me for that!"

Mŷlantil had smiled again. "It is forgiven."

She had pondered for a moment, then had asked:

"I just would want to ask - I am just curious - who a whore is?"

Uncle Gerion had choked on his wine at that question, and his eyes had widened in astonishment. "You don't know who a whore is?"

"No, I do not know," Mŷlantil had simply answered. "It is not I know nothing about Men customs... I know who a leman is, I know Men sometimes do have lemans in my land too, but I have heard nothing of whores. I believe I have never even heard that name. Then, who is she?" she had repeated her question, sending uncle Gerion an intense stare.

Tyrion hadn't understood that word as well, yet he had had no chance to learn what does it mean, for that he had only seen uncle Gerion taking a plentiful sip from his cup before he had almost jumped in dread when he had heard behind his back:

"Are you spying, little brother?"

Tyrion had turned and seen Jaime, leaning against the corridor wall in a careless manner and smirking.

"Jaime..." Tyrion had whined quietly. "I've thought you were practicing sword..."

"I were," Jaime whispered back, clearly amused. "But I've somehow sensed interesting things may be happening here, and I want to be aware of the news concerning our comer. Now, let me see too!"

He had stood right behind Tyrion, and they had both looked through the crack in the door.

"What for?" Mŷlantil had been asking, and uncle Gerion had been looking at her, slightly exasperated and slightly confused:

"What for - _what_?"

"What for they are doing this?" Mŷlantil had repeated calmly and forthrightly, seemingly not sharing uncle Gerion's awkwardness. He had laughed nervously.

"You're asking me why men whore - presuming we still heed some courtesy rules, it's a little embarrassing question to answer, my lady."

Mŷlantil had smiled apologetically. "I am sorry - I did not intend to embarrass you. Men are led by desires I sometimes do not understand. I never knew this one - I was just curious."

"You do not know desire of any kind?"

Mŷlantil hadn't answered immediately. Her eyes had wandered thwart the solar's terrace toward the sea, which peaceful waves had shimmered yellowish. For a while, she had immersed in her thoughts, or mayhap in something she had been seeing - or had imagined she had been seeing - somewhere in the far west beyond the sea.

When she had looked back at uncle Gerion, she had chuckled almost bitterly, and her eyes had glittered fiercely.

"We know," she had slowly said. "We know it far too well, Gerion, yet our desire is different than yours, for that you do not belong to Arda the way we do. Your desire is hasty, unsteady and greedy, as you always wish for more, and you never rest, for that you believe your lifetime is never enough. We foster our desire, inure to it, and it burns us slowly inside until we become nothing more than ashes, but even then, we still cannot release ourselves from it."

Uncle Gerion had smirked. "You speak as if desire was always wrong."

"I do not think it is either wrong, or right," Mŷlantil had smiled slightly too. "Desire bore the greatest beauty. Also the greatest doom, though."

At that moment Tyrion had unintentionally leaned too heavily against the door, which had creaked quietly. Uncle Gerion had immediately turned toward it, hissing:

"Bloody hells, the door!"

Tyrion had only briefly felt as Jaime had grabbed him with one of his quick, nimble moves, then he had just found himself in the different corridor, far away from that door to the uncle's solar.

Therefore, Tyrion had now lay in his bed, thinking once and again about all of that, impatiently awaiting the forthcoming day, until the rush of the waves at last lulled him to the troubled sleep.

The new morrow eventually came, and along with it, much to Tyrion's delight, uncle Gerion took Mŷlantil, Jaime and him to the Elder Library of Casterly Rock.

Never before Tyrion had been allowed to step in there, so his eyes were now moving around in utter amazement. The library was a large circular hall, dimly lit by the candles, thickly placed on the candlesticks, and by few poor sunrays, falling inside through three small windows. The books and the scrolls seemed to be nearly everywhere - from the highest shelves to the floor, apart from the center of the hall, where the reading tables and the writing desks stood.

Uncle Gerion explained to the keeper of the library that they need peace and are not to be disturbed, then ordered him to leave. The keeper glanced with astonishment at Mŷlantil, either surprised by the presence of a woman, or amazed by her fabulous appearance, however, he didn't dare to say anything against uncle's will, and he just agreed.

When the keeper came out of the library, uncle Gerion told them to wait and he soon disappeared amid the shelves.

Jaime went further into the hall, looking around, astonishingly quite interested - possibly he had never been in the Elder Library as well, Tyrion thought. Tyrion himself was greatly curious too, yet far stronger was his urge to stay as close to the Elf-lady as he could, not only because, for whatever reason, it just felt so very good to be with her, but also because it was better, just in case, to guard her, so that she wouldn't accidentally _disappear into_ _nowhere_ , as uncle Gerion had warned.

However, when he was left alone with Mŷlantil, she didn't say anything for a while, as if not remembering he was there at all, her eyes simply wandering over the shelves. Hence, Tyrion's heart suddenly hastened in fear - she surely came here in uncle Gerion's and Jaime's company - not his, he started thinking, she wouldn't want to talk to him, he was just a burden, Cersei always said he was just a burden...

Tyrion closed his eyes tightly to not let the tears come - he didn't know what he should do or say, he just wished to hide, or Jaime to walk back to them.

Then, unexpectedly, he felt gentle fingers brushing the strand of hair from his forehead, and slowly moving down over his cheek. The sudden touch made Tyrion's whole body tense - if his heart had beaten fast before, it now hammered like mad.

"Tyrion, have anything happened?" Mŷlantil asked with concern. She took her hand away from his cheek, and he almost pleaded for more. He opened his eyes widely instead to see the Elf-maid crouching in front of him.

"No," he said quietly. "Nothing."

Mŷlantil smiled. "You need to forgive me I did not call you back into the solar yesterday, _eilianon didthen nín._ I did not want to withstand your uncle."

Tyrion's eyes got even rounder. "Back? You knew I was there, behind the door?"

"You and Jaime - yes, I knew," Mŷlantil wondrous eyes glittered in amusement. "I have heard you."

"I did not tell you your story, either," she added after a moment. "I shall tell you today."

"Of Eärendil?"

"Yes, if you only wish. It is a tale I have always cherished the most, and it beseems you."

In a wave of huge joyfulness and gratefulness, without thinking, Tyrion pressed himself between Mŷlantil's arms and hugged her chest tightly, snuggling his face into her neck. However, he soon remembered what he had done, so he quickly stepped back, and his frightened eyes immediately searched her face for any signs of anger. She seemed a little astonished, but not wroth, though, and she was smiling, still.

"I'm sorry," Tyrion mumbled shyly.

"You do not need to be," she simply said, and with a quick move, she suddenly took Tyrion up into her arms. He smiled in happiness, and wanted to say something, however, they then saw Jaime, walking back to them, whose earlier interest seemed to disappear a little.

"Where is uncle Gerion?" Jaime complained, wiping some motes of dust off of his shoulder. "We could've better gone to see the old swords in the Hall of Heroes..."

Suddenly, Jaime's bored expression beamed, and his green eyes shined. "Can you use a sword, lady Mŷlantil?" he asked.

"You may call me Mŷlantil, Jaime, at least when no one of the court hears us," the Elf-lady said. "Yes, I was taught to wield a sword, the art of archery too. Yet, fighting has not been the path I have chosen. I only," she smirked, "build ships. That is what I can do best."

"Build ships? With your own hands?" Jaime's eyes got round, but Mŷlantil wasn't able to answer, for that, all of sudden, they heard a loud crash somewhere amid the shelves.

Jaime ran toward the source of the unexpected sound, and Mŷlantil followed him forthwith, with Tyrion still in her arms. They saw two books that, for unknown reason, lay on the floor - they must have fallen off the shelf, and opened whilst that fall...

Jaime took one of the books in his hands. "What the hells? The wind?" he asked, raising his brows in disbelief.

Mŷlantil shook her head. "Here is no wind," she said, looking around carefully, "and even if it was, it would have had no strength to blow down these books."

"What has happened?" Tyrion heard uncle Gerion's voice behind his back. He turned his head and saw his uncle, whose eyes immediately moved over Mŷlantil and him, then wandered to Jaime and the book he held.

"This library has lasted for hundred of years, Jaime. Do not tell me you're ruining it in less than a hourglass," uncle smiled mockingly.

"I've done nothing," Jaime snapped. "The books just fell."

The smile disappeared from uncle Gerion's face, and he frowned, asking nervously:

"You haven't seen anyone?"

"No one is here apart from us," Mŷlantil said with a smile. "I would have easily heard anyone of your folk. You step loud as _Ennebyn_."

Tyrion thought he needed to remember to ask Mŷlantil later what Ennebyn means, now, however, something else caught the attention of all of them.

"What is it?" Mŷlantil pointed at a small, yellowish-white piece of something that lay under the shelves - the piece which possibly had fallen out of one of the books on the floor. Jaime took it and shew them - it seemed to be a shred of clothing, old and dirty, and some sentence was written on it with a writing tool Tyrion could not recognize.

"It's charcoal," uncle Gerion answered Tyrion's inner doubt, amazed. "Someone wrote it with the charcoal."

"The letters are very unclear," Jaime winced slightly, yet he tried to read regardless of that:

"For my twofold beloved sister Fein to let her remember I did not rot herein for naught, and that all has its cost."

Then Jaime turned the shred - on the other side of it something was drawn, however, the drawing had smudged so much, that nothing could be read out of it, apart from few strokes and the short description:

_Ezellithīr_

"What does it mean, uncle?" Jaime asked. "What speech is it? Is it Old Valyrian?"

"I don't know what it means," answered uncle Gerion, taking the shred from Jaime and looking at it. "It's only one word, which I don't understand, it may or may not be Old Valyrian, it looks like it could be, but my knowledge of the language is far too little to judge it..."

"But who do you think could have written this? And when?" Tyrion asked impatiently.

Uncle Gerion laughed at that. "Tyrion, how can I know? This piece may have tens, or even hundreds of years, it's beyond imagination how many scribes, maesters, scholars, officials and other ones have walked among these shelves during all that time, and Gods know how many beloved sisters they might have had. It's just some piece, quaint, but means nothing now."

Tyrion still wasn't convinced, though, and looked at Mŷlantil. "And what do you think about it, Mŷlantil?"

"Mŷlantil?" he asked again when he saw that the Elf-maid wasn't attentive to what they had been speaking of at all as she was staring at some point Tyrion couldn't recognize.

" _Tuilinn_ ," she whispered in her tongue, smiling widely. "The swallows."


	6. Chapter 6

 

"What are you speaking about?" asked uncle Gerion, frowning.

"Look there!" answered Mŷlantil, showing the direction with a slight move of her head.

Uncle Gerion took the lit single-candle lamp into his hand, and raising it as high as he could, he made a few steps ahead. Only now Tyrion could sight what the Elf-lady had meant, and what earlier had been hard to notice in the dimness of the library - in the midst of the highest shelf and the oval-shaped, carved plank above it he saw, built of clay and mud, birds' nest.

"The mother told the nestlings to hide," Mŷlantil was saying quietly. "We frightened her - she hid as well, right there," she pointed at some dark corner among the shelves, wherein Tyrion himself didn't see anything. He was beginning to learn, however, his eyes were nothing in comparison to the eyes of the Elf.

"They are practicing how to fly - the nestlings," Mŷlantil continued. "Their moves are still so awkward they could have hit the books earlier and dropped them."

"How do you know all of this?" Jaime looked at her doubtfully. "All I can see is an empty nest."

"Be quiet for a moment," Mŷlantil said at that, and she made a few short, strange sounds, something between peeps and whistles. Then, to Tyrion's astonishment, the dark corner among the shelves answered her, in a similar way, and they saw a small, dark blue bird with a white chest, coming out of the shadow.

The bird whistled once more, and out of the hollow of the nest appeared two swallow's younglings, which soon fearfully and wobbly flied down to their mother.

Mŷlantil smiled slightly at that sight.

"Can you talk to them?" asked Tyrion, his mismatched eyes meeting hers.

"No, no," the Elf-maid shook her head. "At least not fully - as no one has ever taught me their language, and they have not been taught mine. Still, I sometimes feel I understand birds better than many others of the Eldar, even if they are only glimpses of thoughts, not words."

"But swallows?" uncle Gerion wondered aloud. "What are they doing here? I haven't seen swallows anywhere nearby the Westerlands for years, least of all within Casterly Rock."

Mŷlantil watched the swallows carefully for a moment, then she said:

"Yet it seems they have found a good place for a nest herein once the spring came."

"Spring?" uncle Gerion looked at her, raising his brows questioningly. "What spring? The last spring came to Westeros four years ago - our sweet swallow's infants would've then had a fairly long time of nesting, don't you think, my lady Elf?" he smirked.

Mŷlantil clearly got surprised. "What do you mean by four years? Do the seasons not come to your land every year?"

While uncle Gerion explained to the Elf-maid that  _yes_  - forsooth, the seasons do not come to their land every year, and told her about the rules - or the lack of such rules - of their changing here, her eyes grew round like full moons, and they shined almost fearfully.

"How is it possible? Lady Yavanna would have never agreed to that! ... It almost seems as if your part of the Great Music has been in some way broken..." she pondered.

"Who's lady Yavanna?" asked Tyrion, interrupting Mŷlantil's thoughtfulness. "Is she an Elf like you?"

"Some goddess who whirls the planet on her pretty immortal finger, sometimes chattering with birds in the meanwhile, I wager?" uncle Gerion smiled mockingly.

Mŷlantil's eyes suddenly burned fiercely at that, and Tyrion sent his uncle a half frightened, half displeased look. Why uncle Gerion had to joke about what she was saying, and peril she would get angry at them? It was so amazingly wondrous that she was now with them, but it all could be so easily shattered...

" _Foolish Aphadon_!" Mŷlantil snapped in her tongue. "Do not scorn the powers you will not ever understand!"

However, her gaze soon softened as she again became more thoughtful than wroth, and her voice was deeply astonished when she said:

"Yavanna is not a goddess in a meaning you seem to assign her, but  _Balan,_ Vala... Yet, you do not know anything of the Valar, do you? You know nothing of the Valar, you know nothing of Aman..."

" _Yes_ , aright," said uncle Gerion, irritated. "We've already understood we know nothing of anything, so would you - mayhap - be so kind and shed some light on the matters?"

Mŷlantil nodded with a smile, and Tyrion breathed inwardly - it didn't seem she was angry any longer.

"I shall gladly tell you. I shall draw you a map of Arda the best I can, and show you where, by the shimmering shores of Belegaer, Aman lies," she said while her eyes glittered with some strange yearning.

Thereby, they then spent hourglasses, comparing the maps and listening to Mŷlantil's amazing tales. Although it seemed to Tyrion neither Mŷlantil, nor uncle uncle Gerion had thought of any explanation why, all of sudden, Mŷlantil's ship had appeared on the Sunset Sea the day before, as well as they didn't found any hints of former Westeros peoples' knowledge of Mŷlantil's land, and although Tyrion himself was not able to fully understand all the things the Elf-maid had been speaking of, it had truthfully been the best hours in his short life, and later he thought that nothing, or no one could possibly spoil that day.

Even if it was Cersei, whom Mŷlantil, Jaime and him later met, soon after dinnertime, as they walked down the corridor nearby the Great Hall.

When Cersei saw them, her eyes, as usually, shined at the sight of Jaime. She hurriedly muttered something to her maidservant, possibly dismissing her, and not taking any notice of Mŷlantil and Tyrion, she came close to her twin brother.

"I was looking for you," she said a little accusingly, but smiling, and Tyrion saw as her slender fingers found the back of Jaime's hand, then they began to dance on his skin, moving over it in the strange, subtle way.

Tyrion's body tensed, and he immediately clutched to Mŷlantil's leg. The Elf-lady looked down at him with clear astonishment, yet she seemingly sensed Tyrion's anxiety - his heart hammered joyfully when she leaned down to him and held out her hands, so that he could climb up into her arms.

He quickly grabbed Mŷlantil's shoulders, and hid his face between her neck and her hair - he felt as Mŷlantil gently rubbed his back, and he thought, almost happily, that Cersei could say whatever she wished now. It didn't matter any longer.

"I was busy," Tyrion heard Jaime mutters, and glancing briefly at his older brother, he noticed that Jaime actually seemed quite bewildered by the sudden meeting with their sister, and he didn't look like he knew what to say next as he peeked at Mŷlantil questioningly.

However, at last Cersei herself became interested in the Elf-maid as she gave her a long, piercing stare. A quick glimpse of deep astonishment, even fear crossed Cersei's face when she looked into Mŷlantil's jewel-like eyes, yet she soon got rid of that expression, which was replaced by the mocking smile.

"Does the dwarf have a new nursemaid?"

Unexpectedly, Mŷlantil got surprised with Cersei's question.

"What Dwarf?" she simply asked, still boring her eyes into Cersei, who must have become uncomfortable under that stare, for she snuggled herself tightly into Jaime's chest, saying both frethfully and boldly:

"Jaime, who is she?"

Flames suddenly gleamed in Mŷlantil's gaze as she answered at that - calmly, but with clear anger:

" _My_ name is Mŷlantil, and I am a guest of Gerion Lannister, young lady. Who are you?"

For a moment, Cersei seemed frightened again, but she only snuggled even deeper into Jaime, and looked at Mŷlantil proudly:

"I'm Cersei Lannister," she said, then added, for whatever reason, "Jaime's sister."

"Yes," Mŷlantil nodded, and a slight smile returned onto her face, "I can see that... Thus, you are Tyrion's sister too."

Cersei winced, sending Tyrion a loath look. He buried his face back into Mŷlantil's neck.

"Yes, the dwarf's too."

Mŷlantil frowned, saying all of sudden, with nothing else, but curiosity in her voice, "Tyrion is not a Dwarf. Why are you calling him so?"

Her strange confidence made Tyrion look at her in utter confusion. He then moved his eyes to Jaime, who seemed equally surprised, also slightly nervous, though.

"I'm calling him a dwarf, because he  _is a dwarf._ Are you a maester to question it? You for sure do not look like one," scoffed Cersei, smiling with disdain.

Much to Tyrion's astonishment, Mŷlantil laughed at that, clearly amused.

"I do not need to be a... maester to discern a Man from a Dwarf..." she suddenly stopped, possibly noticing what she had misunderstood, and looked at Cersei with curiosity.

"You mean  _naugol Abonnen_... I have not known you use this word- " she hesitated again when she saw the same as Tyrion did at that moment - uncle Gerion, walking toward them, still several feet behind Jaime's and Cersei's backs, rolling his eyes and feverishly showing Mŷlantil to be quiet.

"Good day to you, Cersei," uncle Gerion said hurriedly when he stood beside them, with a faint, falsely cheerful smile on his face, "Lovely afternoon, is it not?"

He seemingly didn't care much for Cersei's answer, though, for he forthwith turned toward Mŷlantil and asked:

"Lady Mŷlantil, please forvive me for interrupting the conversation so abruptly, yet I believe we still have some urgent matters to talk about. Would you be so kind, then, to accompany me now into my solar? I would be greatly obliged."

Mŷlantil agreed, and she leaned down to put Tyrion on the floor. He reluctantly let go of her, still inwardly hoping uncle Gerion would tell him to come along with them, even if he knew it was a vain hope - uncle Gerion just couldn't allow him to come now.

After exchanging the parting courtesies, Mŷlantil and uncle Gerion walked away. Tyrion, suddenly all awkward and tense again, looked up at Jaime for help. However, his brother didn't have a moment to even briefly glance at him as Cersei demanded sneeringly, yet with a whit of bother in her voice:

"Who is  _she_ , Jaime?"

Tyrion's heart fluttered like mad, and despite his fear, he moved his eyes to Cersei and quickly blurted out:

"She is a parchment seller! Uncle Gerion invited her - he want-"

"I'm  _not_  asking you, little monster," Cersei barked at him, and for the nonce, Tyrion had no courage to utter another word. He moved closer to the wall and clung to it for doubtful comfort, then began to stare at the floor, inwardly begging Jaime to not betray Mŷlantil.

Amazingly, he didn't.

"She's a parchment seller," Jaime said with a careless smile, leaning his back against the wall and reaching out to play with one of Cersei's golden locks. "Uncle Gerion's guest, that's all."

"What were  _you_  doing with her?" asked suspiciously Cersei, even if she seemed soothed by the affectionate moves of Jaime's fingers. "She seems either daft, or wode. Or both."

Jaime shrugged. "She is kind. Knows a lot."

"Of parchments? Since when you're interested in parchments?"

"Not of parchments," Jaime laughed. "She was taught the swordmanship. I may want her to show me what she can."

Cersei snorted at that. "What could she that you do not?"

Jaime said nothing at that, Cersei didn't press him further, though. She only once again took Jaime's hand into her own, and rubbed it tenderly a few times, then leaning closer to him, she whispered with a sweet smile:

"I don't want to talk here. I'm waiting for you in my chamber."

As soon as she went away, Tyrion rushed toward his brother and hugged his legs tightly.

"Thank you, thank you..." he mumbled into Jaime's legging.

Jaime let out an amused chuckle. "For what?"

"You haven't told her about Mŷlantil," said Tyrion, letting go of his brother's legs and looking up at him. "You cannot tell her, Jaime!"

"Don't worry, I won't tell her."

"But you always tell her everything!" Tyrion complained, with sudden grudge he had never thought he could have been capable of toward Jaime.

Astonishingly, Jaime answered him with equal feverishness.

" _This_  I won't tell!" he snapped. However, he soon calmed down, and his expression softened as he kneeled in front of Tyrion.

"You really do not need to worry, little brother," he said, stroking Tyrion's hair. "Cersei will know nothing about Mŷlantil from me... But she still may get to know some other way - she, or the others. Uncle Gerion is right - we can't hide Mŷlantil forever. We may lie to Cersei, but we'll hardly be able to lie to Father."

Tyrion hung his head, sighing heavily. He knew that Jaime was right, yet for now, he didn't even want to think about what was going to happen once Father returned - he wished to just lengthen as much as possible the moments the three of them now spent with the Elf-lady.

"I have to go, Tyrion," Jaime said, interrupting Tyrion's musings. "Do you want me to bring you to your rooms, or call for a servant?"

"No, no," Tyrion quickly shook his head. Going to his chamber was a last thing he now wished to do, he didn't want Jaime to know that, though. "I mean - I will go myself."

Jaime only nodded. As soon as he disappeared behind the corner of the castle corridor, Tyrion walked other side, then he climbed the stairs onto the upper floor where lay the chambers of uncle Gerion. Alas, he had not the same luck as the day before, and the door to uncle's solar was now tightly closed.

No matter how much Tyrion wished to do it, he found no courage to open the door and come inside. Therefore, he waddled to the sitting place on the inner sill of the window, then clambered onto it, and hugging his bent legs with his arms, he leaned his back against the cold stone of the wall - once in his life he felt grateful that almost no one in the Rock ever paid much attention to him, so hopefully, he could await herein unseen.

Tyrion didn't know how much time he had spent on that sill, yet the eventide had already begun, and the shadow of the dusk was falling through the windows into the castle when Mŷlantil at last left uncle Gerion's solar.

She didn't notice Tyrion, though, as she began to walk the other way, so he quietly called out to her. Mŷlantil forthwith turned toward the direction whence his voice came, and went to him.

"Tyrion, what are you doing here?" she asked with astonishment, sitting down by his side. "Should you not be sleeping?"

"I don't want to sleep. I cannot anywise!" Tyrion blurted out fiercely as if, in this two sentences, he wanted to dispose of all his anger and sorrow, yet he soon lost his nonce boldness, and his cheeks got hot of embarrassment. Lowering his gaze, in the growing dimness he found a strand of Mŷlantil's dark hair, and began to fiddle with it shyly.

Mŷlantil chuckled lightly. "I promised you the tale, did I not? Do you still want to listen to it?"

Tyrion immediately raised his head as he nodded feverishly, a wide smile appearing on his face.

"Lead me to your bed chamber then,  _eilianon didthen,_ " she said when she took him up into her arms, and Tyrion thought he couldn't have been happier as moments later Mŷlantil dismissed his nursemaid, explaining to her:

"I am a friend of lord Gerion Lannister. With his allowance, I shall take care of little lord Tyrion this eventide."

She will _take care_  of little lord Tyrion this eventide.

She will  _take care_  of little lord  _Tyrion_.

She will _take care_  of _him._

Him. Him!

Tyrion could have jumped in his unexpected blitheness, yet instead he was just smiling wildly, hugging the Elf-maid every favorable moment and talking so much as if all of sudden he wanted to tell her all about his short life - till the moment when Mŷlantil at last laughed, saying she had not guessed he could have ever been so talkative.

Tyrion forthwith quieted down at that, his cheeks blushing.

"I'm sorry if I annoyed you..." he mumbled.

"You do not annoy me at all," Mŷlantil said, brushing the hair from his forehead - Tyrion's heart hastened, and he ascertained how much he loved when she did it. "You may speak as much as you wish."

However, Tyrion spoke no more for a while, and his heart beat even faster as he inwardly fought with himself to ask Mŷlantil the question.

"Mŷlantil?" he began at last, afraid to meet her gaze.

"Yes?" she encouraged him while she clad him in his sleeping tunic and seated him on the bed, settling herself by his side as well.

"Do you think I'm very ugly?" Tyrion slurred so quietly that he doubted Mŷlantil could understand it. He raised his head, and now looked deeply into the Elf-maid's glittering eyes, so frightened with her possible answer that his body could have hardly moved at that moment.

It seemed Mŷlantil had heard his question, and her eyes widened in clear astonishment.

"No, Tyrion, I do not think you are ugly," she said pensively. "Never once I have thought you were ugly. You differ from the children of the Afterborn I have met before, yet, truth to be told, I think that you are the sweetest of all of them."

"Really?" Tyrion smiled widely.

"Yes," Mŷlantil nodded, still very thoughtful. Then, studying his face carefully, she added as if more to herself than to him, partly in her own speech:

"I do not even understand why I anon have grown so fond of you.  _I feel as if you reminded me of something long ago forgotten, eilianon didthen nín..._ "

Tyrion didn't care he had not understood half of what she had said - the other half he had was enough to immediately snuggle into her, mumbling frantically into her neck, "I like you too, I like you so much... I love you..."

He felt as Mŷlantil kissed his forehead - oh, so gently, then she pulled him even closer to herself, and began to rub his back with tenderness Tyrion had never supposed was possible. At that moment he knew he would never want to let go of her, he doubted he would ever be able to...

"Now the time for your tale has come," Mŷlantil said after a moment, leaning, along with Tyrion, against the pillows, and covering both of them slightly with the blanket.

"How shall I begin the story of Eärendil?" she mused. "If it was Círdan, he would first tell you of Fingolfin and his children, if Glorfindel - he would praise the shining beauty of Gondolin which he misses... And I shall tell you at the beginning about the day when Tuor of the House of Hador, led by Voronwë, passed the gate of the Hidden Kingdom, wherein he met princess Idril Celebrindal, and they fell in love with each other..."

The Elf-lady's tale was long and beautiful, and Mŷlantil's soft voice compounded in Tyrion's ears with the rustle of the peaceful sea and repeated once in a while cries of the gulls, what made the tale even more wondrous. When Mŷlantil finished at last, her gaze wandering thwart the window of the chamber toward the night sky, Tyrion asked her, amazed:

"Does the star of Eärendil still shine now, after all these years?"

"Yes, although only at times it may be seen," the Elf-maid answered. "In my land we call that star _Gil-Estel_ , what in the Common Speech means: Star of High Hope. It is also said among my kin that Eärendil will leave the sky not sooner than at the end of time we know."

They both was silent for a while, until, after some thought, Tyrion sat before Mŷlantil, so that he could look into her eyes, and he unconfidently asked her one more question:

"Am I a Man like Tuor? You've called me a Man when you talked to Cersei..."

Mŷlantil nodded with a smile. "For you are a Man."

"Then... Is it possible that... That one day I would wed you as Tuor once wed Idril, and you would take me from here to Valinor, and we..." And they would be together for eternity, Tyrion finished inwardly, his heart fluttering joyfully at that amazing thought.

However, Mŷlantil only laughed at that, clearly amused, and Tyrion lowered his gaze in embarrassment.

"I just wanted to know," he mumbled quietly.

Mŷlantil stroked his hair, again becoming pensive when she said:

"Loving unions between Elves and Men very rarely happen, and even more rarely these unions end happily like the one of Idril and Tuor. Our fates differ - none of them is better, or worse, yet they differ, and we belong to our fates. Thus, Aman is not the choice, but a part of the fate. Tuor was granted with the call of Aman as the sea-longing awoke in him. Without it, even if the Valar allow you to stay in Valinor, you could become very miserable therein, little Tyrion."

"Also," she added after a moment, with an amused smile now, "I believe you are far too young to yet think of those things,  _eilianon didthen_. By the time you are old enough, you will for sure understand that this kind of love is too precious and neatly woven to be hastily gifted to the Elf-maids, whose blemishes you barely know... Yet now, when the moon and the stars are already gleaming on the sky, all you need is to sleep," she said at the end, once again pulling Tyrion gently into her arms.

Tyrion more than happily obeyed to bury his face back into Mŷlantil's neck, even if sleeping was the last thing he wanted for nonce.

However, as much as he wished to talk to the Elf-lady all night, being able to cherish every moment of her presence, he soon felt as his eyelids become heavy, and his thoughts begin to melt away. His foolish body that never listens to him...

" _Tiro elei lín Elbereth_ ," Mŷlantil whispered into his tousled hair, where she placed a soft kiss.

Then the overwhelming warmth lulled Tyrion Lannister into deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :)
> 
> Thank you very, very much for reading, liking and reviewing, I'm happy you enjoyed, particularly since I'm aware this story is slow, and at this point you may still wonder: what exactly is it all about?... :D
> 
> Also, I'm adding here the translation of Sindarin words and phrases used till now (I've forgotten to do it before):
> 
> Aur vaer - Good day
> 
> Goheno nin... Ú-gosto nin - Forgive me, don't be afraid of me (in a meaning: I didn't want to frighten you)
> 
> Reviannen an Linhir - I sailed to Linhir
> 
> eilianon didthen (nín) - (my) little son of a rainbow
> 
> Ennebyn - plural form of Annabon - an Oliphaunt
> 
> Tuilinn - swallows
> 
> Aphadon - a Man (also one not of the Edain)
> 
> Abonnen - a Man (also one not of the Edain)
> 
> naugol - dwarf, but used as an adjective (stunted). In my headcanon, in Tolkien universe they didn't use the word "dwarf" for People other than the Dwarves as a race (I guess it could generate misunderstandings if they did) - hence Mŷlantil's mistake
> 
> Tiro elei lín Elbereth - May Varda watch over thy dreams
> 
> Still, Sindarin isn't my native language (as well as English, by the way), so please be forgiving ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 4**

 

 

Mŷlantil had already been in Casterly Rock for a week, but only that morrow Jaime had a chance to be alone with her, and he felt both eager and nervous about it.

The last week had gone by, resembling more a dream than reality. Uncle Tygett, aunts Genna and Dorna, and the rest of the court seemed to be treating Mŷlantil more like a ghost than a living person, talking to her only when needed - still either frightened, or astonished with her, they had all possibly decided to silently await Father's return and reaction to this unusual guest in the castle. Even Cersei rarely approached the Elf-lady, surely not as often as she might have wished to, regarding how she inquired of Jaime about her.

Jaime himself didn't approach Mŷlantil as often as he would have wished to as well. Till now, it had seemed to him that Lady Elf had been only dividing her time spent in the castle between Tyrion and uncle Gerion, and he had usually felt useless in that unspoken agreement.

Even if Jaime doubted uncle Gerion believed Mŷlantil's stories much more than he had on their first day together, he surely was enchanted by them in his own, half - serious way - thus, he was closing himself with Mŷlantil in his chambers, wherein they were speaking for hours, and neither Jaime, nor Tyrion (who was disconsolate because of it) was allowed to partake in those long, strange conversations.

Tyrion adored Mŷlantil madly. He hardly left her side, and Jaime couldn't remember one moment when he had seen his brother this happy before - almost with jealousy, he thought even him could have never made Tyrion smile so blithely as he did in Mŷlantil's presence. Strangely, the Elf-lady understood Tyrion in a way that Jaime never could have, that possibly  _no one_  could ever have. She responded to his thoughts and needs before he voiced them at all, and she treated him with genuine affection - Jaime had often wished Cersei had showed their little brother if only a whit of such affection.

Jaime himself neither had Uncle's adventurous spirit, nor shared Tyrion's longing for tender hugs, amazing stories and clever answers for clever questions, yet he too was allured by the Elf-lady - in his own, simpler way. He thought Mŷlantil was beautiful - not in a silly, childish manner Tyrion found her beautiful, but in a manner that made his cheeks get hot, his palms sweat slightly and his body tensed each time his gaze lingered for too long on Mŷlantil's nimble fingers dancing between her hair when she was brushing them back.

This feeling was utterly new to Jaime, and matched no other he had ever experienced with women, complete with Cersei (truthfully, the only woman he had ever been interested in). Just as nothing in his life was easier than being with Cersei, it now seemed to him that nothing was harder than being with Mŷlantil, what left a commonly shallow, dodging inner struggles boy he was in an irritating state of nervous excitement, hidden behind overmuch, even for him, cockiness.

"You need to think, Jaime. Sword fighting has to do with your mind as much as with your body and spirit," Mŷlantil smiled slightly when Jaime picked up his wooden sword from the ground, and angrily adjusted the hilt, even if it had already settled well in his hand.

"I  _am_  thinking," he snapped, but his gaze shied away from her glittering eyes, and he once again moved his palm over the sword hilt. "You scolds me as if I were a little boy who displeased you, my lady."

 _My lady_. In a way, Mŷlantil still frightened him too, even if Jaime would have never admitted it himself. For whatever reason, he couldn't even bring himself to call her by her given name, what Tyrion did repeatedly without a whit of hesitation.

 _Little boy._  He had never wanted to prove more than now that he was a boy no more, and never he had failed more to do it. He felt no one had ever treated him with sharper indulgence than Mŷlantil, despite her gentle kindness.

At last Jaime straightened up and looked at Lady Elf, his eyes glittering foolhardily. The early sun, which had risen not much sooner, shined over a grassy terrace where they stood, and onto Mŷlantil's face, lighting an amused smile that had appeared on her lips. She was mocking him, and Jaime wanted to snap more at her, yet he bit his tongue, suddenly becoming shy again under her piercing stare.

Sighing with anger, Jaime carelessly leaned his wooden sword against the training pell, and sat heavily on one of the rocks around, his golden hair covering his face as he took a look at his boots.

"Am I to flatter you? You have your sister to do that, and many others in the forthcoming years."

Jaime answered nothing at that, still hearing Mŷlantil's amusement, hidden behind her words. Then she put her sword away as well, and sat down next to him.

"You are good, Jaime," she said simply, and seriously this time. "You are quick and strong, and fighting flows in your blood as well as it beseems your soul. In a few years, I will hardly be able to teach you anything more... Yet you yourself know that you are good, you can feel it each time you take a sword, and it forthwith clings to your hand as if it was nothing else, but another part of your body. Do you not?"

Mŷlantil looked intensely at him, and when Jaime raised his head and his eyes met hers, his heart hammered. For she was beautiful, yes - and being so close to her caused his young body to tense in this particular way which made him remember that mayhap he still wasn't fully a man, yet he surely was not a boy anymore too, but also because for the first and only time Jaime felt Mŷlantil talked to him as to someone equal to her.

"But you are good too, so good!" he said in sudden rush. "I've never seen anyone move like you when fighting!"

Mŷlantil smirked at his excitement.

"I am an Elf," she said. "I have got deftness of a body, and powers in my spirit given to me by birth you cannot possess... Yet still, I am a bad warrior."

"Why?" Jaime raised his brow.

Mŷlantil was silent for a moment, gazing ahead pensively as if wondering what she was about to say.

"Have you yet killed, Jaime?" she asked him at last.

Jaime shook his head to deny. "Have you?"

"Yes," answered simply Mŷlantil, still not looking at him, but over the horizon, where the blueness of the sky compounded with the waves of the sea. "Never a Man, only Orcs, but this makes no difference in the end."

Ere Jaime managed to ask who the hells were Orcs, the Elf-lady continued:

"Whilst one fights, whilst one truly fights, there are -  _shall be_  - two things to think of: life and death, victory and defeat. Just these two things - nothing more, nothing less. Nothing amid. When I fight, I always feel something amid."

"And what's that?" Jaime urged.

Mŷlantil turned her gaze to him, and her eyes glittered. "Doubt."

Jaime gave her a questioning look, yet Mŷlantil said nothing - she only smiled again with that pride and amusement of hers, and Jaime felt as exasperation arises in him. She again thought he didn't understand anything, was too stupid to talk to him like that...

A sudden shear of wind caused his hair to fall over his face, and he impatiently brushed them back. Unexpectedly, Lady Elf spoke then:

"Once there was a dog.

Since birth, the dog led a dreadful life, for his master beat him and harried, and he used him for most dangerous, nasty errands.

Yet some day, the dog was sold to a new master, who came to love him dearly and was truly good to him. Now the dog was well fed and caressed, thus he should have been happy, and he would have been if only one thing had not disturbed him - his new master possessed a casket in which he hid something very precious to him. The dog never knew what it was, for he was forbidden to ever look into that casket.

"My dear friend," his master was telling him, "therein, in that little casket I keep my greatest treasure. Thanks to it, I am who I am, I have achieved what I have achieved. Yet, to my true regret, I cannot share my treasure with you, for it is mine, and it has never brought any good to take anything other than what was given to us."

But the dog neither understood his words, nor believed them, and he always watched, with his eyes full of desire, as his master put the key to the casket into the pocket of his mantle.

 _Had I this treasure_ , thought the dog,  _I would be strong like my new master, I would have strength to venge on my old master, make him pay for my sorrow..._

Such thoughts haunted him days and nights, till the fateful hour when he threw himself on his master to wrest the key to the casket. They fought for a while, yet soon the master defeated the dog. But when he raised his dagger above the dog's head, his hand trembled, and he spared his life.

But when he turned away, the dog lope on his back and bit his neck, taking his life. He pulled the key out of the mantle, and rushed to the casket, though only to find it was... empty. Then the dog returned to his slain master, and sat by his side, and cried, for not only he understood what he had done, but also the words of his master.

Then Eru smiled."

"If you think you've made anything clearer for me..." Jaime muttered after a moment of silence between them. "I'm not good at such stories... Why haven't you told it to uncle Gerion, or Tyrion rather than to me? Mayhaps they would understand."

"Yet I have told it to you," Mŷlantil said simply, and she looked into his eyes, deeply enough to almost cause Jaime's body to flinch.

"What for?" he snapped at her, moving his gaze away from her face. "I don't understand it... This God of yours... Why did he smile?"

However, Mŷlantil said nothing at that. She just stood up, and came to the parapet wall. Resting her hands upon it, she looked ahead - at the sea.

Jaime felt his fleeting anger leaves him. He hesitantly rose from the rock, and walked to Mŷlantil's side, glancing up at her face, partly covered by her hair, slightly tousled by the growing wind. The Elf-lady remained still - for a moment it seemed to Jaime that she no more remembers of his presence, and a sudden, weird, ridiculous thought crossed his mind: mayhap she wasn't here with him at all, mayhap she was just another blow of the wind, wave of the sea...

"Mŷlantil," he touched her arm slightly. "What are you thinking about, my lady?"

Mŷlantil glanced at him briefly ere she said:

"The wind changes, and my time comes."

"Time for what?" asked Jaime, raising his brows.

"For going home."


End file.
